This one is for all of us who live in Cancerland and are waylaid by one too many individuals practicing medicine without a license.

What is it about a cancer diag­nosis that suddenly endows people around you with a degree in oncology?

I first became aware of this phenomenon when I was diagnosed with multiple myeloma almost nine years ago. Since then, I have seen it played out in count­less settings, including a myeloma support meeting.

The moment someone mentions the word “cancer,” homegrown cancer experts emerge from behind bushes and under rocks. All of these oncologist wannabes are convinced that they, and they alone, know the secret to curing you.

When I was first diagnosed, I was the lucky recipient of more “medical” advice than I could shake a stick at. Usually, I was able to avoid or shrug off almost all of this misdirected "concern.” But every now and then someone would score a direct hit.

My mother, in her stress over a child of hers having an incurable, terminal illness, would call me, sometimes several times a day, to pass along all the important in­­for­ma­tion she had. “Cousin Barney said you’ll be sick from the chemo but that’ll pass. He said the [fill in the name of the drug] will kill the cancer.” (Cousin Barney had been treated for stomach cancer; I don’t remember what the chemo agent was, but it wasn’t one in the myeloma treat­ment world.)

Or, “I saw Dora at the store, and she said to tell you to start eating carrots. Right now! She knows someone who ate carrots when they had cancer and it went away. Do you want me to stop at the store and get you some?”

Thanks, but no thanks. I know Mom meant well, but I don’t think she ever quite under­stood just how draining (and frustrating) it was to listen politely to all of the “cancer nuggets” she brought me on a daily basis.

Maybe all of these faux oncologists mean well and are just expressing concern. All the same, I find it stun­ning that cancer brings out the Dr. Kildares, Marcus Welbys, and Doogie Howsers in full force.

My all-time favorite ex­peri­ence involved wheatgrass juice. (Note: for any of you out there who drink the stuff, more power to you. I’m not impugning anyone’s diet decision.) An acquaintance, upon hearing that I had been diagnosed with multiple myeloma, called me at my office to talk about a nutritional regi­men she wanted me to begin im­medi­ately.

The diet was Spartan vegan (to libel both Spartans and vegans everywhere) and centered around my drink­ing wheatgrass juice on a daily basis, in ever increasing amounts, while subsisting on a limited number of carefully prepared vegetables. I believe the first two weeks consisted only of the juice and a vegetable soup twice a day.

She assured me this would cure my cancer and save my life. Starting that moment, she dramatically em­pha­sized, there were to be "absolutely" no fats in my diet either.

"Cut them out!"

I interrupted her monologue to point out that I was in a catabolic state and dropping weight fast. I was in the care of an oncologist. He said I needed fats.

She im­medi­ately enlightened me that my oncologist was keeping the cure from me to keep the medical es­tab­lish­ment going and what I really needed was to start the wheatgrass juice im­medi­ately, with the daily all-veggie soup fol­low­ing that. She would make the soup for me at my home to guarantee there were no illicit fats in it.

I had no interest in a vegan wheatgrass juice diet and said so.

In the way that only someone who is convinced that they alone know the truth is capable of doing, this in­di­vid­ual kept going on and on about the diet I had to switch to that moment, ignoring my attempts to end the conversation. I had limited energy as it was, I was trying to wrap up my office work so I could exit the practice, and I wasn't about to let her consume any more of it. So I cut in (again) and said, "I'm done talking." Even then she rattled on. So I finally hung up abruptly, something I have rarely done before or since.

Three days later, the same severely misguided individual called me back, again interrupting my limited office time. Her tone was a little strained as she explained that she realized she had to respect my decision not to follow her advice and "follow the path" that was right for me. She acknowledged that I was "apparently com­mitted" to fol­low­ing "some medical procedures.” This was said with a faintly disapproving and pitying air, as if I had made a poor choice in a moment of weakness. Then, with a firm, slightly hostile edge to her words, she admonished me not to wait until all medical hope was gone before seeking her help again as it "would be TOO LATE then!"

Well, that was a real pick-me-up.

My response was swift and to the point. "Rest assured that if I get to the point where all medical hope is gone, I will not be drinking wheatgrass juice. Dom Pérignon champagne, maybe, but not wheatgrass juice." And then I gently hung up the phone.

My guest list ever since has been composed of friends who check their medical credentials at the door.